Diya {original title is Greek, Delta-iota-psi-alpha}

Amy Lowell - 1874-1925
          Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!
          See where it casts the shadow of that tree
          Far out upon the grass. And every gust
          Of light night wind comes laden with the scent
          Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:
          Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and that
          Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,
          The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.
          It seems as though the garden which you love
          Were like a swinging censer, its incense
          Floating before us as a reverent act
          To sanctify and bless our night of love.
          Tell me once more you love me, that 't is you
          Yes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand;
          And tell me it is by your own free will
          That you are here, and that you like to be
          Just here, with me, under this sailing pine.
          I need to hear it often for my heart
          Doubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust.
          Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,
          And yet I would not have it goodness, rather
          Excess of selfishness in you to need
          Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.
          I wonder can it really be that you
          And I are here alone, and that the night
          Is full of hours, and all the world asleep,
          And none can call to you to come away;
          For you have given all yourself to me
          Making me gentle by your willingness.
          Has your life too been waiting for this time,
          Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?
          Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as though
          I were a priest before a holy shrine.
          I'm glad that you are beautiful, although
          Were you not lovely still I needs must love;
          But you are all things, it must have been so
          For otherwise it were not you. Come, close;
          When you are in the circle of my arm
          Faith grows a mountain and I take my stand
          Upon its utmost top.  Yes, yes, once more
          Kiss me, and let me feel you very near
          Wanting me wholly, even as I want you.
          Have years behind been dark?  Will those to come
          Bring unguessed sorrows into our two lives?
          What does it matter, we have had to-night!
          To-night will make us strong, for we believe
          Each in the other, this is a sacrament.
          Beloved, is it true?

More by Amy Lowell

A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.


They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps, 
Cold, white lamps, 
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another,
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city:
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the
   moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon, 
And this is an alien city.

Opal

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

The Taxi

When I go away from you
The world beats dead 
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?